The Madman Theory (17 page)

“She worried enough to move in with her sister,” said Collins. He ruminated a moment. “You're probably right about the letter. She couldn't have known too much, but that wouldn't prevent her from claiming omniscience. And she would have written: ‘Don't try any tricks; I have arranged for information to be sent to police in case something happens to me'”

“But where is the information?” demanded Loveridge. “Was she bluffing? Did the murderer know she was bluffing? It's a strange situation.”

“It's strange,” nodded Collins. “I'm anxious to see what's in Box 1126. She might have locked the key in the suitcase for a reason.”

Loveridge's china-blue eyes bulged with interest. “You mean—”

“A letter addressed to, ‘Henry Jones, Box 1126. If not delivered in ten days, forward to Chief of Police.'”

“By golly! I believe you're right!” Loveridge's superiority had now dissolved. “Let's get there!”

The postal boxes, serried ranks of dull bronze and glass, occupied the far end of the post-office lobby and the walls of an alcove. Box 1126 was in this alcove. But it was now an orifice. There was no door on it. The front was gone.

12

At a window Collins attracted the attention of a clerk. “We're police officers. What's the story on Box 1126?”

The clerk surveyed them from below his green eyeshade. “I'll tell you one thing—it's a federal offense, and that's no laughing matter.”

“What happened?”

“Last night someone comes in and jimmies the box door. These doors aren't built to withstand assault. He'll regret it, whoever he is. Once the Feds get on a man's tail, they never let up.”

“What time did this happen?”

“Hard to say. Some time after six, probably.”

“What's missing? What was in the box?”

“No idea. You'll have to get that information from the boxholder”

“No chance of that,” said Collins. “She's dead. That's why we're here. No one witnessed the act?”

“Nobody's come forward, but it's hardly likely the crime was seen. It would only take a minute: put one of these new ripping bars into the crack, give a yank, and the door flies open.”

“Who fills the boxes?”

“I do. That's part of my duties.”

“Do you remember what was in that box?”

“No, sir.”

“Whom was the box rented to?”

“John Anderson.”

“Was anybody hanging around yesterday?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

Collins and Loveridge glumly examined the empty box. Collins put his eye to the glass of a nearby box, and with some maneuvering read the address. “‘Mr. J. A. Rogerts.' It can be done.”

“What can be done?”

“What I just did—read an address through the glass.”

Loveridge gave a shrug of incomprehension. They returned to the car.

“It's pretty clear what happened,” said Collins. “Molly sends an anonymous letter to the murderer—call him X. She instructs him to make payment to Box 1126. X comes down to the post office, with the idea of waiting till somebody comes for mail from 1126. When he gets here he notices a letter in Box 1126. He looks—as I did—to find whom it's addressed to.

“X goes out, buys a ripping bar or a big screwdriver. He comes back, waits till the coast is clear, pries open the door, gets the letter. He takes it out, reads it. Molly Wilkerson is the blackmailer! He figures he'll cure her once and for all. He waits for her leave work and kills her. That's all there is to it.”

Loveridge nodded sadly. “It could have happened that way, all right.”

“Which means we're back to where we started—to the murder of Earl Genneman.”

At the City Hall they separated, and Collins went off to find himself a room for the night.

On the following morning they met once more, and Loveridge was briefed on the circumstances of Genneman's death and the subsequent murder of Steve Ricks. “Steve Ricks and Molly Wilkerson are secondary,” said Collins. “They were killed for the same reason: to protect the identity of Genneman's murderer. We know why they were killed and how, and it doesn't bring us any closer to the killer. There's still a lot to learn—about Genneman's relations with his family, the state of his finances, the books at Westco, and Buck James and Jean Genneman. What stopped their romance? Why did it start up again as soon as Genneman died? Does Mrs. Genneman have boy friends? How does she get along with Myron Retwig? Friendly? Unfriendly? Extra friendly? How did Red Kershaw get home from Smoky Joe's?”

Loveridge frowned down at his notes. “Someone must have noticed two men carrying out a drunk. It's probably not unusual, but the people in the next booth, or one of the waitresses, would have noticed.”

Collins agreed. “It should be checked into.”

“I'll try Smoky Joe's tonight. As for the rest—it looks as if some head-knocking is in order. What do you have in mind for yourself?”

“I'm on my way out to Genneman's house. One or two little points I want to clear up. For instance, why Earl Junior doesn't drive.”

“He might be an epileptic. Or, more likely, his license was lifted.”

“I'd like to find out for sure. Together with another small matter. He's an unpleasant kid.”

Loveridge considered. “I'll come along.”

Opal Genneman greeted Collins and Loveridge with her usual courtesy, though her costume, a smart lavender tweed suit, suggested that she had been about to leave the house. She took them into the living room. “Have you learned anything more about—what happened?”

“It's a slow business, Mrs. Genneman. I'm afraid we're going to have to ask some pretty personal questions.”

Opal Genneman sighed. “That's your job, I suppose.”

“I wish everyone felt as you do, Mrs. Genneman. I think I've asked you if you knew Steven Ricks.”

“Yes. But I'd never heard of him till then.”

“What about Mrs. Molly Wilkerson?”

“Molly Wilkerson? No, I don't think so.”

“You'd have known her under a different name. She was married at one time to Mr. Kershaw.”

“That
Molly. Oh yes. I know
of
her.”

“Apparently she tried to blackmail your husband's murderer. Yesterday morning she was found dead.”

“How awful! How was this Wilkerson woman—” she spoke the name with an effort “—how was she killed?”

“She was struck on the head with an object like a hammer.”

“It must have been a man's work,” said Opal Genneman, half to herself.

“It takes no great strength to crack a skull, not with the right tool. Most of all, the motive behind your husband's death puzzles us.”

“Is it possible the murderer intended to kill someone else? That poor Earl just happened to be in the lead?”

“It's not likely. The murderer had a clear view of the trail.”

“It could be a mistake. Aren't there such things as deadfalls, or whatever they're called, that set off a gun when something is stepped on?”

“But it would shoot the first man to come past, whoever he was. Also, the rest of the party searched for a gun and couldn't find it. Unless we assume conspiracy, we have to fall back on the presence of someone to discharge the gun and remove it afterward.”

Opal Genneman nodded rather weakly.

“Here's our problem. Molly Wilkerson seems to have suspected the identity of the murderer from the fact that this person met Steve Ricks and Mr. Kershaw at a night club and drove Mr. Kershaw home, on the weekend before the camping trip.”

“You've asked me about that. But Earl and I weren't home, nor was Jean, and Little Earl doesn't drive.”

“Why doesn't he drive?” asked Collins casually.

Opal Genneman blinked. “He has no operator's license.”

“Did he ever have a license?”

“No. He's only sixteen.”

“He knows how to drive, though?”

“Well, yes. Even I know how to drive.” She voiced an unconvincing laugh.

“Does Earl Junior refrain from driving by his own choice?”

“Well—his father always thought he was too young to drive.”

“Then Mr. Genneman was the real reason Earl Junior had no license?”

“Not altogether.” Mrs. Genneman was now obviously distraught. “I don't see what this has to do with what we're talking about.”

“Let us be the judge of that,” said Lieutenant Loveridge suddenly.

She bit her lip. “I suppose it had to come out … A year ago Little Earl borrowed a car and had the misfortune to injure an old woman. He became … nervous, and he drove away. When the officers finally were able to stop him they claimed he'd been drinking. Little Earl has always denied this. It was a very unpleasant situation, and cost us a great deal of money. He was put on probation on the condition that he not drive until his nineteenth birthday. Naturally, he feels this very keenly. I always thought the penalty was harsh, though my husband never considered it so. He insisted that Earl Junior honor the conditions of his probation.”

“I see. Well, that answers one question. You don't think, then, that Little Earl would have driven to the night club to pick up Mr. Kershaw?”

“I certainly do not.”

“Is he at home now?”

“He's somewhere around—probably up in his room. Shall I call him?”

“Just one minute. There's something else I want to know.” Collin's voice hardened. “Your daughter was engaged to Buck James, and then the engagement was broken. Why was this?”

Opal Genneman made a helpless gesture. “I'm sure I don't know. It wasn't at Jean's initiative; she's always been crazy about Buck.”

“Did it have something to do with Mr. Genneman?”

“I don't know what you mean,” she said stiffly.

“Please, Mrs. Genneman, remember we're trying to catch a murderer, probably a multiple murderer. We've simply got to have all the facts.”

“I can't imagine what you're suggesting. Murder or no murder, I won't allow you to bully me!”

“If we don't find out from you, we'll find out somewhere else. There's more to this on-and-off engagement than meets the eye.”

“I've told you all I know. If you want further details, you'll have to question Mr. James.”

“We'll do so. Now, if you'll be good enough, please call your son.”

“I'm right here.” Earl Junior negligently arose from a large chair at the far end of the room, where he had sat concealed. “What's on your mind?”

Collins studied the pallid face, so callow and wise. “You heard your mother tell us that on the night of Saturday, June 6, she and your father were out for the evening.”

“I heard you.”

“And you were the only member of the family at home.”

“That's right.”

“Did Steve Ricks call the house?”

“I don't know Steve Ricks.”

“Did anyone call, with the information that your uncle needed a ride home?”

“If anyone did, I slept through it.”

Collins, assured by the boy's insolence that no information would be forthcoming, turned back to Opal Genneman. “Mr. Genneman often went on back-packing trips?”

“Not often. Every year or so he'd get the urge.”

“He usually went with friends?”

She shook her head. “Until this year it was always a family affair. Last summer I couldn't make the trip and Earl and the two children went alone. But before that—well, as I say, it was a regular family affair.”

“Where did you hike, as a rule? In Kings Canyon?”

“Oh, no. In Yosemite. Once up in the Yolla Bolly country.”

Loveridge entered the conversation. “Incidentally, has your daughter ever been engaged before?”

Opal glanced at him sharply. “No.”

“No doubt she's had lots of boy friends?”

“The usual lot. She's never been boy-crazy, if that's what you mean—for which I'm profoundly thankful.”

Earl Junior gave an offensive snicker, and she flashed him a look of unmaternal dislike. Loveridge glanced at Collins; Collins nodded slightly; and they took their leave.

13

Collins found Captain Bigelow in his office catching up on some paperwork. Bigelow motioned him to a seat. “What's it look like?”

“It's getting thicker by the hour,” said Collins. He told of Mrs. Edna Beachey and the rifled post-office box. “What bothers me is that I can almost see what's happening—out of the corner of my eye. But when I turn to take a close look, there's nothing but blur.”

Bigelow made a series of small restless gestures. “What's the next move?”

“The Ford that Steve Ricks was driving seems the best bet,” said Collins. “It's probably a rented car. It looks to me as if the noise in the automatic transmission cost Steve his life. It made him drive his own car into the park, and that left a record of his license registration. So Steve had to go.”

After a moment Bigelow said, “You seem to think that whoever shot Earl Genneman—or whoever paid Steve Ricks to do the job—furnished Steve the Ford.”

“That's what it looks like. Now if Steve had the car four days—don't forget the car entered the park on Wednesday—some of his cronies must have noticed. Steve wasn't the type to resist putting on the dog. He'd have taken his pals for a ride, gone calling on his girl friends.”

“How could he have done all that if he was up in the park from Wednesday on?”

“He wasn't. He was back at work Thursday morning at the Sunset Nursery. The trip on Wednesday could have been at any time, from morning till night. It's only an hour's drive. Then he had the car to himself until Saturday.”

“Well, it's your case. Handle it the best way you can.”

Collins went back to his own office. “It's my case, unless there's a big blaze of glory,” he muttered to himself, “and then it's Bigelow's …” He looked at his watch: a quarter to five. He hesitated. He felt like going home, showering, and relaxing over two or three martinis with Lorna. With a groan of self-pity he went out to his car, swung it around, and drove west through the going-home traffic.